


To Bring You Back

by olive_aspenhawk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: London's Butcher, M/M, Serial Killer, Sherlock's return, The Ultimate Case, Universe Alteration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-07-26 08:52:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7567936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olive_aspenhawk/pseuds/olive_aspenhawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2 years after Sherlock's "death", John is still around. He's going about his life, finally becoming happy again when Sherlock spoils everything. He shows up and turns John's life upside down yet again, pulling him into the growing mystery of London's Butcher, a whole new category of serial killer. There's something special about this villain, and it's up to Sherlock and John to figure out what. But no one will be able to predict how this case will close.</p>
<p>This is also available on Wattpad at https://www.wattpad.com/user/LivvAspenhawk</p>
<p>Disclaimer: I do NOT own the Sherlock franchise or any of the characters!<br/>Chapters 1 and 2 adapted from original Sherlock script, from http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/64080.html<br/>(Sherlock AU, follows the plot of S3E1, but without Mary. Sherlock returns because of a case, and John finds himself dragged into a growing pile of murder mysteries.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aspiring_Life](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aspiring_Life/gifts).



You smiled, satisfied, as you sharpened the knives and then carefully laid them out in their places, gently sliding some back into the knife block, with only a soft noise to indicate the movement. The work space was still bloodstained from last week; the activity had been a huge success. If it were any other cutting board, you would bleach it, but you knew the chemicals would damage the wood. The cutting board really was beautiful, a consolation gift from an old friend after... you shook your head, shying away from that particular train of thought. After finishing with the knives, you grabbed a damp rag, wiping the cutting board yet again. One can never be too clean.

You looked around, realising you needed to organise the Kitchen again. The Kitchen was what you had lovingly named your little hideout, your safe place away from all the journalists and paparazzi still trying to milk every possible story and tidbit about Sherlock's demise, even two years later. It was away from Baker Street, something that Mycroft had organised in an old warehouse. You hadn't really meant to get into cooking, but it helped when you were upset. You’ve started experimenting with all sorts of styles and cuisines, and gotten quite good, often inviting friends around for tea, or to try out a new recipe.

You frowned at the thought of him, scrubbing absently at every available surface as you walked around the room. It didn't bear thinking about, Sherlock's death. It seemed that everyday a new detail popped up, proving over and over that Sherlock was gone, whatever Russian rumor was floating around. But you still stood by your original beliefs: Sherlock had lied to you, and he was really that smart. He couldn't be dead. Anderson had only fueled that flame of hope, encouraging any and all theories on how Sherlock could have survived. He even started that stupid fan club... what was it called again? The Empty Hearse. Idiotic. Sherlock would have agreed. That wasn't how to lure Sherlock back. He had to have a reason. You knew you wouldn’t be enough incentive, so you had to find another way.

You smiled again, looking around the now-clean Kitchen, ready to start the next project. Prepping, the building anticipation, was one of the best parts of your new pastime.


	2. Back to Baker Street

It was night in Serbia, and there was a man with long curly hair running desperately through the forest. Above him, the helicopter was circling around, shining a searchlight into the close, dark shapes of trees while the pilots carefully watched their infrared camera, waiting for glimpses of the man and, when they saw him, radioing instructions in Serbian to the armed ground crew. There was much shouting and running and chasing the man through the woods, but the man kept going, this time doggedly fleeing instead of pursuing his enemies.

Minutes passed before some of the soldiers found a way to block the way in front of the man. One of them sent a burst of automatic gunfire towards the man's feet, and the man had no choice but to stop. The soldiers surrounded the man and aimed their rifles at him. He slumped to the ground, exhausted and breathing hard.

...

A soldier wearing a thick coat and a furry hat was guarding the entrance to the Room. Every soldier in the bunker knows you don't want to be put in the Room. You aren't the same when - if you come back out. The soldier had earphones in his ears playing loud music. Behind the closed door, the man, now a prisoner, cried out as he was struck yet again. Hearing the noise, the soldier took out one of his ear buds and looked round to the door as the prisoner was struck again and groaned. The soldier put his ear bud back in and turned away.

Inside the room, a tall man shouted repeatedly in Serbian at the prisoner, his shirt torn to shreds and abandoned in the corner, his arms chained to opposite walls of the small room, forcing him to stay upright. The man had slumped forward as far as he can, apparently exhausted by the repeated blows and unable to support his own weight. In a dark corner of the room another soldier, well wrapped against the cold and with a furry hat on his head, sat with his feet up on a small table and watched while the torturer paced across the room.

"You broke in here for a reason," the man said in Serbian, and his back tensed when he got no response, muscles bulging.

He picked up a large metal pipe from a nearby table and walked towards the prisoner again, whose face is hidden by the long straggly hair that fell across it.

"Just tell us why and you can sleep," the torturer offers. "Remember sleep?"

He drew back the pipe over his shoulder and prepared to strike the prisoner, but the man quietly whispered something. The torturer paused, lowering the pipe and leaning forward.

"What?" He reached down and pulled the man's head back by the hair, leaning closer as the prisoner continued to whisper. The soldier in the corner spoke.

"Well? What did he say?"

Straightening up and releasing the prisoner's head, the torturer looked down at the bedraggled man in confusion and disbelief.

"He said... that I used to work in the navy, where I... where I had an unhappy love affair."

"What?" The soldier's voice was incredulous, and the torturer grabbed the man's hair again, pulling the prisoner's quickly moving mouth to his ear. The prisoner continued to whisper, and the torturer relayed his words to the other man.

"That the electricity isn't working in my bathroom; and that my wife is sleeping with our next door neighbour!" He reached down and pulled up the prisoner's head by the hair again. "And?"

The prisoner replied briefly and the man released his head.

"The coffin maker!"

Once again he bent to the prisoner, lifting his head with a fist in his hair. "And?" he says, his voice desperate for more information. "And?"

The prisoner continued whispering, his mouth moving even faster. Then the torturer dropped his head and relayed the words to the soldier.

"If I go home now, I'll catch them at it! I knew it!" His voice echoed in triumph around the room as he stalked across it, slamming the door open. There was a cry of surprise and a stream of curse words as he hit the guard in the back with the door. "I knew there was something going on!"

"So, my friend," the uniformed soldier said, standing and strolling towards the prisoner, now slumped in his chains, his back covered in blood and wounds from his beating. "Now it's just you and me." He smiles as he looks down at him. "You have no idea the trouble it took to find you."

The soldier grabbed a handful of the prisoner's hair and pulled his head up a little. Leaning close to the man's ear, he spoke in English instead of Serbian.

"Now listen to me," he whispered. "There's an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack is imminent. Sorry, but the holiday is over, brother dear." He released the prisoner's head and straightened up.

"Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft said.

Under the long hair draped across his face, Sherlock smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry this update took so long, I've been busy with catching up on next year's school requirements, and summer has been getting in the way. Next update coming asap!


	3. The Case of John Watson

Back in Mycroft's ever-pristine office, Sherlock read the front page headline of a newspaper titled "SKELETON MYSTERY". Upon finishing the article, he folded down the newspaper with a loud crinkling (he knew his brother found this annoying) to reveal Mycroft sitting behind his nearly empty desk a short distance away, immaculate suit and tie nothing like the thick Serbian uniform that he had worn only a few days ago. He looked precisely the level of annoyed that Sherlock had desired. He read a thick file, so full of papers that it was a wonder Mycroft held it together. Mycroft paused, laying down the file. “You have been busy, haven't you?” The question was dripping with sarcasm. 

Sherlock tossed the newspaper casually to one side (again to annoy his brother; Mycroft would have to pick it up later, as he allowed no one into his office while he was not present), and glared at Mycroft. He was reclined flat on his back in a barber's chair while a man was shaving the ragged stubble from his face with a straight razor, dangerously close to creating the next crime for Scotland Yard to attempt to solve. Sherlock's hair was cut back to its normal length, but it was wet and straight, his appearance strange without his signature curls framing it. 

“Quite the busy little bee,” Mycroft continued with a chuckle.

“Moriarty's network,” Sherlock said lazily, somehow managing to simply emanate sarcasm at the same time. “It took me two years to dismantle it.”

“And you're confident you have?” 

Mycroft attempted to hide his surprise, but gave up when Sherlock smirked. There was no hiding his few emotions from his little brother.

“The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle.” Sherlock’s voice was confident and arrogant as ever.

“Yes. You got yourself in deep there,” Mycroft paused as he checked his file for the right name, “with Baron Maupertuis. Quite a scheme.”

“Colossal.” It was nearly impossible to tell if he was still being sarcastic or was now serious. 

“Anyway, you're safe now,” Mycroft said, almost reassuringly. The big brother habit never seemed to fade, popping up in every conversation. 

Sherlock hummed doubtfully. He was never safe; he had enemies everywhere.

“A small 'thank you' wouldn't go amiss,” Mycroft sighed. 

“What for?”

“For wading in.” At that, Sherlock raised a hand, signaling for the man still bent over him to stop. The man stepped back a bit. “In case you'd forgotten, fieldwork is not my natural milieu,” Mycroft finished.

Grunting at the pains in his sides, bruised muscles complaining, Sherlock stood and glared venomously at his older brother. If looks could kill, Mycroft would be pushing up the pitiful daisies hat. Anthea had planted outside his office. 

“‘Wading in’?” Sherlock’s voice took on a deep, violent quality, bringing a dragon to mind. “You sat there and watched me being beaten to a pulp.”

Mycroft frowned indignantly. “I got you out.” 

Sherlock tilted his head like a bird of prey. “No,” he growled, “I got me out. Why didn't you intervene sooner?”

“Well, I couldn't risk giving myself away, could I?” He was obviously making up excuses. “It would have ruined everything.”

“You were enjoying it.”

“Nonsense,” Mycroft scoffed. 

Sherlock nodded, his suspicions confirmed. “Definitely enjoying it.”

“Listen, Mycroft said, leaning forward. “Do you have any idea what it was like, Sherlock, going 'under cover,' smuggling my way into their ranks like that?” He grimaced. “The noise; the people.” At the last word, he sat back in his seat, his face a mask of disgust.

Groaning softly, Sherlock painfully sank back to lie down in the chair again. The barber dutifully resumed his work. After a moment of silence, Sherlock spoke. “I didn't know you spoke Serbian.”

“I didn't,” Mycroft said, “but the language has a Slavic root, frequent Turkish and German loan words. Took me a couple of hours,” he said with a shrug.

“Hmm.” Sherlock smirked. “You're slipping.”

“Middle age, brother mine.” Mycroft’s smile was tight, forced. “Comes to us all.”

The office door opened then, ending the sibling’s traditional banter. Anthea held a familiar dark suit and white shirt on a hanger, clear and pristine, just like everything else in the office. Sherlock took the outfit from her, and, walking into a connected bathroom, began humming a tune.

When he came out, Sherlock's hair was dried and curly again. He tucked his shirt into his trousers as he walked to a large mirror on the wall and looked at himself. Mycroft and Anthea stood nearby, watching. 

“I need you to give this matter your full attention, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “Is that quite clear?”

Pretending to ignore him, Sherlock said, “What do you think of this shirt?”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft was already exasperated, but Sherlock spoke before Mycroft could properly reprimand him. 

“I will find your underground terror cell, Mycroft.” Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, before crossing the room to look out the floor to ceiling windows that lit the place with the usual grey light of the city. “Just put me back in London,” he continued. “I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in – feel every quiver of its beating heart.”

Anthea, not allowing Sherlock to be distracted, said, “One of our men died getting this information. All the chatter, all the traffic, concurs there's going to be a terror strike on London – a big one.”

Sherlock slipped on his suit jacket, shrugging his shoulders to make it settle onto his thin frame. His inquiries continued. “And what about John Watson?”

Anthea threw an exasperated glance at Mycroft, signaling that there was nothing more she could do to attempt to keep him on track. Mycroft sighed and gave his brother what he wanted.

“John?”

“Mhm.” Sherlock hummed in agreement. “Have you seen him?”

“Oh, yes,” Mycroft responded sarcastically. “We meet up every Friday for fish and chips!” He gestured to Anthea, who obediently handed Sherlock a folder. Sherlock eagerly flipped it open as Mycroft continued. 

“I’ve kept a weather eye on him, of course,” he said as he adopted the pompous big-brother expression that Sherlock knew so well; chin up, eyes flicking down to the file and then smugly back up to Sherlock’s hopeful expression. 

But Sherlock had his eyes glued to the file, not even glancing at his older brother. He stared at the two black and white photos of John tucked in the file next to the printed report. 

Mycroft said something, but it took Sherlock a moment to register it. “You haven't been in touch at all, to prepare him?”

“No,” Sherlock said distractedly.

He examined one picture of John. He has a mustache now, he thought. Out loud, he only said “Well, we’ll have to get rid of that.” 

“We?” Mycroft startled at the interruption of his precious silence. 

"He looks ancient,” Sherlock said, as if the point was obvious. “I can’t be seen to be wandering around with an old man.” He closed the file and plopped it onto the desk with an air of finality. 

Sherlock smiled and straightened his jacket, circling his shoulders to make it settle. “I think I’ll surprise John. He’ll be delighted!” Sherlock was all smiles in his certainty. 

Mycroft only offered him a cynical smile. “You think so?”

Sherlock began to frown, thrown off by his brother’s reaction, but still enthusiastic, even though he would never admit to this rush of emotions he was feeling. “Hmm. I’ll pop into Baker Street.” His voice took on a sarcastic tone. “Who knows - jump out of a cake!”

Mycroft’s face softened for a moment. He frowned as he said, “Baker Street? He isn’t there any more.”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks on his way out the door. Mycroft only continued, either unaware or uncaring of his younger brother’s distress. 

"Why would he be? It’s been two years. He’s got on with his life.”

Sherlock spun on his heel, putting on a smile. “What life? I’ve been away.”

Mycroft looked like he was trying to figure out how to roll his eyes without actually moving them, and making very good progress.

Sherlock shrugged. “Where’s he going to be tonight?”

"How should I know?”

Sherlock gave his brother an exasperated look. “You always know.”

Mycroft sighed and gave in. “He has a dinner reservation in the Marylebone Road. Nice little spot. They have a few bottles of the 2000 Saint-Emilion… though I prefer the 2001,” he finished smugly, as if Sherlock cared, or didn’t already know which wines he ordered at some stupid restaurant.

“I think maybe I’ll just… drop by.”

"You know, it is just possible that you won’t be welcome.”

That stopped Sherlock again. “No it isn’t. Now, where is it?”

"Where’s what?” Mycroft asked innocently. 

Again came the exasperated look. “You know what.”

Suddenly Anthea appeared in the doorway, holding the familiar coat. She holds it up as Sherlock grins, sliding his arms into the sleeves like he’s hugging an old friend. Anthea reaches up and pops the collar, saying, “Welcome back, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock smiled. “Thank you…” He turned to look at Mycroft, smirking. “...blud.”

Mycroft only rolled his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!!! Sorry I went so long without an update. I've been super busy with school. I hope to have the next chapter out within two weeks. Thanks for reading!!!

**Author's Note:**

> I'll update this story as often as I can, as I am still writing it. Let me know what you think! 
> 
> I gift this story to @Aspiring_Life, who inspired me to get going on my writing instead of waiting around for someone else to write the perfect story.


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